“Please,” Marcus yelled over the noise. “If you wouldn’t mind.” He pointed through the throng and led Jack and Laurie to an interior door. He knocked, stuck his head in, then gestured for Jack and Laurie to enter.
As the door closed behind the two medical examiners, relative peace descended. They were in an office about eight by twelve with three other men. Dozens of temporary phone lines had been brought in. Phones littered the desk running the length of the right side of the room. In contrast to the confusion in the outer office and the pandemonium outside in the streets, the three men were seemingly calm. All were sitting down. Jack recognized only one. It was Stan Thornton, the director of the Mayor’s office of Emergency Management.
“Sit down,” Stan suggested. He pointed to two empty desk chairs. Jack and Laurie sat down as requested.
Stan’s height was apparent even while sitting. The tall man was dressed casually in a tweedy jacket. With his tousled hair, rumpled clothes, and intellectual when, he looked more like a college professor than a high-level civil servant.
Stan introduced Jack and Laurie to the other two men: Robert Sorenson, an FBI Supervisory Special Agent, and Kenneth Alden, an officer of FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
“Would you like some coffee?” Stan asked. “You must be famished after your ordeal.”
Jack and Laurie declined but were surprised to be offered coffee so casually during such a crisis.
“Can I ask how things are going?” Jack questioned.
“Certainly,” Stan said. “With as critical a role you two have played in this event, you are more than entitled to know. As you can see from outside, we’ve done a poor job maintaining any semblance of order. There was widespread panic that frankly overwhelmed us and proved beyond a shadow of doubt that a real event is far different from an exercise. We couldn’t keep the people in the building. And because a plume developed from the building’s vent, the whole section of Manhattan west of here became contaminated with the powder.”
Stan paused. Jack and Laurie looked from one face to another. What Stan had just related was terrible news, yet the men seemed curiously unconcerned.
“But there has been one significant development that is undoubtedly in our favor,” Stan said. “Would either of you have any idea of what that might be?”
Jack and Laurie looked at each other quizzically, then shook their heads.
“At first we thought that this was too good to be true,” Stan continued. “Our HHAs or hand-held assay instruments were not giving us a positive reading for anthrax,” he said. “Certainly not like we got out in Brighton Beach where you were. Now, of course these hand-held units only test for the four most commonly expected bioweapons. So we had to wait for more comprehensive backup technical support before we could be sure. Just a few minutes ago we got final confirmation. The powder is not anthrax. In fact, it is not a biological at all. It is merely very finely milled flour — cake flour — colored with cinnamon.”
Jack’s and Laurie’s mouths dropped open in disbelief.
“Now, it is our general consensus that this was not meant as an elaborate practical joke, especially given the pest control truck in Brighton Beach filled with weapon-grade anthrax and a dead body in the house. Therefore, the FBI is extremely interested in apprehending the perpetrators, and any information you can give us about these individuals and the People’s Aryan Army will be enormously appreciated.”
Jack and Laurie looked at each other and shook their heads in shocked surprise.
“That crazy Russian!” Jack said.
“It’s fantastic!” Laurie marveled. “He double-crossed the People’s Aryan Army and inadvertently saved the day.”
“What exactly do you mean?” Robert Sorenson asked.
“There was apparently some disagreement about the target or targets,” Jack said. “Yuri Davydov wanted to drive the pest control truck around Central Park...”
“Good Lord!” Stan said with a shake of his head. “That could have caused a million casualties.”
“But the People’s Aryan Army wanted to do the federal building,” Laurie said. “And apparently there wasn’t enough bioweapon for both, so Yuri Davydov must have improvised with cake flour and cinnamon.”
“He knew what he was doing,” Stan said. “Some people think weaponized anthrax is white, but it isn’t. It’s a light tan or amber color.”
“Obviously what Yuri Davydov did not expect was to be killed by his co-conspirators,” Laurie added. “I guess the People’s Aryan Army considered him disposable after they’d taken what they thought was their share of the anthrax. Actually, from what we overheard, the People’s Aryan Army wanted it all, but Yuri Davydov had put it into the pest control truck so they wouldn’t be able to get it out.”
The three men looked at each other and nodded.
“That seems to fit the facts as we now know them,” Ken Alden said.
“We lucked out with this one,” Robert Sorenson said while stretching. “That’s all I can say, and that said, it doesn’t speak well for all our planning and exercises to date regarding bioterrorism. Our counterintelligence didn’t block it, and our response system didn’t contain it.”
Jack and Laurie looked at each other. Spontaneously they leaped to their feet and threw their arms around each other. After the tension and fear engendered by their incarceration, the good news filled them with joy. They hugged and laughed, unable to contain their relief.
“Whenever you’re ready, we’d like to debrief you immediately about the People’s Aryan Army and their alleged fireman leaders,” Robert Sorenson said. “The bureau is going to put the highest priority on their apprehension and prosecution.”
Epilogue
Thursday, October 21
1:30 p.m.
“Try another station!” Curt said.
Steve leaned over and twirled the dial until the radio came in reasonably clearly.
They were in an old Ford pickup truck that Steve had bought for five hundred dollars under an assumed name. They were about fifty miles from New York City, and the radio signals were getting progressively weaker. They’d heard one news flash soon after getting into the truck a half hour earlier, just when they were starting westward on Interstate 80. The news flash had been brief. It had only said that there had been a major bioweapon event in lower Manhattan, resulting — so far — in general panic.
At the time, Curt and Steve had cheered wildly and high-fived in a delirium of excitement. “We did it!” they’d shouted in unison. But now they wanted more details, but they were having trouble finding any follow-up reports.
“There’s probably a government-sponsored media blackout,” Curt said. “They never want the public to know the truth about anything: Waco, Ruby Ridge, even who shot JFK.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” Steve said. “The government is afraid to let the public know.”
“God, it went perfect,” Curt commented. “A goddamn perfect military operation!”
“It could not have been any better,” Steve agreed.
Curt looked out at the rolling countryside, resplendent in fall colors. They were in western New Jersey approaching the Pennsylvania border. “Hell, what a beautiful country,” he said. He gripped the steering wheel harder. He laughed. He felt great. In fact, he felt as if he’d had ten cups of coffee.
“Do you want to stop for lunch in Jersey or wait until Pennsylvania?” Steve asked.